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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/23797126">Do Not Pasta Go</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/ThinkoftheWindandSun/pseuds/ThinkoftheWindandSun'>ThinkoftheWindandSun</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Prowl Week [5]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>The Transformers (IDW Generation One)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Angst, Fluff, Non-Graphic Violence, War</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-04-23</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-04-23</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-18 11:14:27</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>3,287</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/23797126</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/ThinkoftheWindandSun/pseuds/ThinkoftheWindandSun</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Prowl has been trained to handle a lot of unusual situations. It comes with the territory of being an ex-enforcer and second in command of the Autobots.<br/>Yet, he still wasn't prepared for this.<br/>When worse comes to worse, all that's left to do is lick your wounds and keep going.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Prowl Week [5]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/1709635</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>8</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>42</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Collections:</b></td><td>Prowl Week</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Do Not Pasta Go</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Disclaimer: i dont own transformers or any of its variations.</p>
<p>Prowl Week Day 5: Command</p>
<p>This was born from a typo and a some jokes in a groupchat, it got a little out of hand.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>There was a natural diversity in alt-modes amongst Cybertronians. Some were vehicles for land, some for air, and still others for sea. There were those that transformed into mecha-animals both mundane and fantastic. There were even those who transformed into objects of the stationary kind. Like stereos and toasters and even lamps.</p>
<p>But what Prowl had never seen before. Not even in his many years as an enforcer. Or in his years as a Prime’s subordinate. Was a mech with an edible alt-mode. A lasagne alt-mode.</p>
<p>Let alone two.</p>
<p>Prowl pressed the knuckles of his folded servos to his lips and stared at the datapad on his desk. The two mechs across from him shifted about. Nervous, most likely. Though, they could also be wary of the utensils on his desk that he had yet to clean up from lunch. It would be an understandable fear.</p>
<p>He looked at them.</p>
<p>Red and yellow. Plating well buffed but bearing a decent number of scratches. The ruffled edges of their chest plates were unusual, but could be mistaken for the hood of a vehicle if given enough distance. Though, the somewhat… moist texture they boasted was certainly not as easy to pass off.</p>
<p>“Well,” said Prowl, very aware of the fact that he was out of his depth. He tucked his doorwings back. “I can understand the desire to protect your planet. Your application to our cause is admirable. However.”</p>
<p>“However,” muttered Sideswipe.</p>
<p>The pair traded deeply unhappy looks.</p>
<p>“However, your unique alt-modes may prove a hazard to you in a military environment,” said Prowl.</p>
<p>“What? Just because we can’t drive around in the mud? We can run as fast as any mech—twice as, even. And I’ll bet you can’t find better warriors in your list,” said Sunstreaker.</p>
<p>“Perhaps,” said Prowl.</p>
<p>They were right, of course.</p>
<p>Not many applicants had made themselves known to the Autobot recruiters. And even fewer had done so who had any readily applicable skill sets. There was a data analyst who would be working with Smokescreen, and a spacebridge technician who was also a truly terrifying sniper. The rest were write-offs.</p>
<p>Sideswipe and Sunstreaker had history as gladiators. Which was a terrifying thought in and of itself, because the pits of Kaon were infamous for their ruthless gladiatorial events. That the two had survived, thrived, in that environment was rather telling. Especially with their disadvantage.</p>
<p>The short video they had included of themselves sparring was enough to tip the scales in their favour. Even had Prowl wanted to turn them away. Which he didn’t, necessarily. The Autobots couldn’t afford to turn away anyone. It was just that he was very, very confused.</p>
<p>“You probably already have non-mobile soldiers anyway,” said Sideswipe.</p>
<p>Well. Yes. Toaster in particular came to mind.</p>
<p>“The concern isn’t for your abilities,” said Prowl.</p>
<p>“No?” Sideswipe asked.</p>
<p>“No. You have provided adequate references. The question of your suitability comes down to facts. Should we or the Decepticons implement a rationing of energon, your alt-modes would become a target. To both sides,” said Prowl.</p>
<p>“You think someone will eat us,” said Sideswipe.</p>
<p>“You think an Autobot will eat us,” said Sunstreaker.</p>
<p>“Hunger can do strange things to a processor,” said Prowl.</p>
<p>It wouldn’t exactly be energon on his servos, but their sauce was a similar colour. They clearly didn’t understand the gravity of the situation.</p>
<p>“Look. If someone’s going to try and eat us, the only solution is to eat them first,” said Sideswipe, reasonably.</p>
<p>Sunstreaker got halfway through a nod, then turned to stare at his brother.</p>
<p>Prowl also stared.</p>
<p>Sideswipe grimaced. He scratched at his thigh. His digits came away wet with sauce. A string of melted cheese stretched through the open space.</p>
<p>“That probably wasn’t the best argument,” said Sideswipe.</p>
<p>“You think,” said Sunstreaker.</p>
<p>The two glared at each other. They looked seconds away from getting into a physical fight.</p>
<p>Not interested in a recreation of the video they had sent in any time soon; Prowl revved his engine sharply. They startled and turned to stare at him. The cheese string snapped.</p>
<p>“Enough,” said Prowl.</p>
<p>He moved the datapad aside and sat tall in his chair.</p>
<p>“I will accept your applications—on one condition,” said Prowl.</p>
<p>“Yeah?”</p>
<p>“You will be personally trained by Autobot Ironhide,” said Prowl.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Ironhide came storming into his office nearly two cycles later. He was already glaring, engine snarling, which wasn’t particularly newsworthy. He always looked like that when he had to deal with Prowl.</p>
<p>What was noteworthy was the datapad he had clutched in his servo. So tight faint cracks had begun to spread across the screen. Much more and the datapad would be rendered entirely useless.</p>
<p>As Ironhide came to a stop looming on the other side of his desk, Prowl paused the report he was listening to. He gave him his entire focus; he had learned the hard way that Ironhide would accept nothing less.</p>
<p>“What is this,” said Ironhide.</p>
<p>Not a question. Gritted out through an unhappy churn of glitches.</p>
<p>“You requested that I send you more recruits for training,” said Prowl. He spread his servos magnanimously. “I provided.”</p>
<p>“You! You provided nothing. These mechs are hardly mechs at all,” said Ironhide.</p>
<p>“Is there a problem with their qualifications? I was assured that their combat skills are exactly as their application claims,” said Prowl.</p>
<p>And hadn’t that been a messy bit of research. He never wanted to deal with those contacts again. The mechs in charge of the gladiatorial arenas had felt… almost slimy. As though they were only in it for the money. Only one or two had seemed genuine.</p>
<p>He flicked his doorwings as though to ward off a chill.</p>
<p>Ironhide squinted aggressively at the gesture.</p>
<p>“They’re great fighters. They’ll be amazing soldiers if they can learn to take orders. But their alt-modes are fragging lasagne,” said Ironhide.</p>
<p>“Yes, I was quite surprised myself,” said Prowl.</p>
<p>“What are you planning to do about it? If we come under fire they can’t transform. It’ll make them sitting targets. Never mind what’ll happen if you order a retreat,” said Ironhide.</p>
<p>“I’ve heard they’re very fast runners,” said Prowl.</p>
<p>He probably deserved it when Ironhide threw the datapad at his head and stormed out of the room.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Optimus crossed his arms and considered the map. He cut a very imposing figure, even in the cramped office space.</p>
<p>“We will need only the best warriors for this mission,” said Optimus.</p>
<p>“No,” said Ratchet.</p>
<p>“Do not,” said Prowl.</p>
<p>“Ironhide. Summon the lasagne twins,” said Optimus.</p>
<p>Ratchet swore.</p>
<p>Ironhide got to his feet, saluted, and shot everyone a smug grin before he left the room. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Remind me not to transform after falling down a cliff again anytime soon,” said Prowl.</p>
<p>When Sunstreaker failed to reply he looked at him.</p>
<p>And paused.</p>
<p>“Ah,” he said, “I suppose that wasn’t comfortable either.”</p>
<p>The lasagna said nothing. Somehow, he got the impression of an unimpressed stare anyway. One piece of pasta wiggled threateningly.</p>
<p>“Understandable,” said Prowl.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Starscream was proving a particular thorn in their sides this battle. No matter what plans Prowl attempted, he seemed to predict and thwart them within clicks. It was aggravating.</p>
<p>Doorwings hiked high, he snarled into his comm, “Someone ground Starscream before I go out there And strangle him.”</p>
<p>“That would be something,” said Ironhide, whistling.</p>
<p>“Don't worry, I’ve got this covered,” said Sideswipe. There was an oddly crunchy sound, then, “Oi! Roadbuster, give me a hand would you?”</p>
<p>“I'm not involved in this,” said Sunstreaker.</p>
<p>That was the only warning before Prowl saw exactly what Sideswipe had planned. He watched open mouthed.</p>
<p>Across the battlefield Roadbuster hoisted a over-sized lasagne—Sideswipe—into his arms. Then, apparently tracking Starscream across the sky, threw him as hard as he could through the air.</p>
<p>Sideswipe soared as lasagne never should. Leaving a trail of string cheese and a rain of sauce upon allies and foes alike. The sound of wet pasta slapping against itself in the air would forever feature in everyone's nightmares.</p>
<p>Someone swore.</p>
<p>Then, with a splat, Sideswipe landed directly on top of Starscream.</p>
<p>The jet went down living up to his name.</p>
<p>No one could blame him.</p>
<p>“Thank you, Sideswipe,” said Prowl stiffly.</p>
<p>Sunstreaker snorted.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“I—” Jazz took a steadying vent and sent him a series of image captures “—found this in the rec room this morning.”</p>
<p>Curious, Prowl allowed the file transfer. He opened the images. There was little that could so visibly disturb Jazz. And even less that could do so in the safety of the Autobot’s base.</p>
<p>Despite this knowledge, he still wasn’t quite prepared.</p>
<p>His doorwings shot up so high the struts ached. Visceral horror made even his battle computer stutter to a stop. His plating clamped down tight to his protoform.</p>
<p>A numbness spread through him. He said, only half-way aware he was even speaking, “This must be a mistake.”</p>
<p>“I checked. They haven’t checked in from patrol. And you know they always go for a quick cool down in the rec room before debrief,” said Jazz.</p>
<p>Prowl shuttered his optics.</p>
<p>“Contact Ratchet. Check that they haven’t reported to him for repairs—”</p>
<p>“Already did,” said Jazz.</p>
<p>“—and then call a meeting between the senior officers. An investigation will be necessary. Optimus will have to make an announcement,” continued Prowl.</p>
<p>A heavy silence fell.</p>
<p>Jazz nodded stiffly and left the room. His pede steps were unbearably loud in the otherwise silent room. His plating, too, was clamped tight to his protoform.</p>
<p>When the door whooshed shut behind him Prowl buried his helm in his servos. Grief rose up like a tide. His optics began to overheat. Aching from the strained position they had been held in, his doorwings dropped to fold down against his back. A position he rarely allowed himself.</p>
<p>He had told them. He had specifically said to them that they would be under threat. The arguments they had thrown back had been feeble at best, nonsensical at worst. He should never have let them join.</p>
<p>And now, vorns later, here was the evidence he had anticipated.</p>
<p>Jazz’s image captures remained damningly open in front of his optics. A plate on a table in the otherwise empty rec room. Suspicious smears across its surface. A fork discarded to the side. Speared on its tines was a bit of pasta.</p>
<p>A hitched hiccup came from his vents as his systems overrode the horror-grief that stuck them fast. His fans whirred to cool his internals. He could hardly muster the energy to be grateful.</p>
<p>This was his fault.</p>
<p>Whatever else came next, that was a truth he would know down to his spark. He had allowed this to happen. His lax attitude was to blame.</p>
<p>Sideswipe and Sunstreaker were dead.</p>
<p>An Autobot was to blame.</p>
<p>His engine snarled and he lifted his head. Behind the tide of his grief a wave of anger was rising. He had always been good at anger.</p>
<p>Whoever had done this would pay. He would see to it personally. Whatever else came to pass, he would see that Sideswipe and Sunstreaker were not so easily forgotten.</p>
<p>They deserved better.</p>
<p>He pushed to his pedes. His doorwings rose slowly. The optics that had once seen him scorned glowed bright and hot. Not a siren’s pulsing. Or the overheat of filaments. But a hot, burning glare. Red and Blue and angry.</p>
<p>As he left his office and stalked down the hall, he let that anger fill him. Mechs scattered out of his path. Toaster took one glance at his doorwings and his expression devolved into horror. He stepped out of the way; optics nearly white with shock.</p>
<p>Prowl felt a brief, visceral stab of guilt. If he had the time, he would have stopped to reassure him in some way. But he was on a tight schedule. And there wasn’t much reassuring he could say anyway. Not in this situation.</p>
<p>Storming down the halls did little to ease his anger. By the time he reached the meeting room he was maybe even more furious than before. Which hardly seemed possible, but apparently was.</p>
<p>He stepped into an already full meeting room.</p>
<p>“Do you have any suspects?” Optimus asked gravely.</p>
<p>Every mech in the room very specifically didn’t look at Ironhide.</p>
<p>Ironhide didn’t look at Ironhide—which was anatomically impossible anyway—but he did wipe at a strangely coloured smear on his cheek.</p>
<p>“No,” said Prowl.</p>
<p>“Me and Prowler here are gonna be doing the investigation,” said Jazz.</p>
<p>“We will keep you updated,” said Prowl.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Why are you so upset anyway? You didn’t even like them,” said Huffer.</p>
<p>And Prowl hadn’t, not really. The twins were loud and obnoxious. Prowl had little time for their antics. He didn’t go on the open battlefield enough to form a warrior’s respect for them.</p>
<p>His anger certainly seemed out of place.</p>
<p>“Two Autobots are dead.” Prowl turned to glare at him. He let his doorwings flare wide. “Two Autobots are dead by our own hands! It wasn’t a Decepticon or a traitor. But a careless mech who didn’t bother to check what he was eating.</p>
<p>“Sideswipe and Sunstreaker trusted us to keep them safe. When I allowed them into this army it was because I was confident that I could put measures in place to keep them safe.”</p>
<p>He took a threatening step forward, looming over Huffer. His optics blazed. A snarl pulled his faceplates into something dark. Twisted the scars at the corner of his mouth.</p>
<p>The rec room—the scene of the crime only recently released—went deathly quiet. Everyone was staring. Prowl couldn’t find it in himself to care.</p>
<p>“I am angry. I’m so fragging angry. And I’m angry because my subordinates are dead on my watch! You want to know why I’m upset, Huffer? Because of all of the deaths I have been responsible for during the war these are the ones that were the most avoidable,” he bellowed.</p>
<p>“Uh,” said a familiar voice. “I think there’s been a misunderstanding.”</p>
<p>And there, in the doorway to the rec room, stood Sideswipe. Sunstreaker was a step behind him.</p>
<p>Prowl turned and flipped a table.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“I’m very glad you’re both alive and well,” said Optimus.</p>
<p>“Thanks,” said Sideswipe.</p>
<p>Sunstreaker snorted and looked away.</p>
<p>“I am also glad that no one has accidentally eaten you,” continued Optimus. “We were all very emotional about the situation.”</p>
<p>Everybody looked at Prowl.</p>
<p>He glared at them.</p>
<p>Jazz snickered. As though he weren’t having some kind of crisis of faith a few clicks before. Traitor.</p>
<p>“Did anybody tell Ironhide yet?” Ratchet asked.</p>
<p>Everybody went for the door at the same time.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Ironhide was sat in the corner of a storage room, having a breakdown. Prowl took one look and quietly stepped aside. Ratchet went through, shortly followed by the twins.</p>
<p>Prowl, Jazz, and Optimus stood around outside the closed door looking like fools. They shooed away anyone curious enough to come looking for the source of the wailing and swearing.</p>
<p>“Everything good?” Rotorstorm asked.</p>
<p>“Yes, everything's fine,” said Optimus.</p>
<p>A particularly loud wail came echoing through the door. Optimus winced.</p>
<p>Rotorstorm stood there a second longer, EM field radiating doubt, then shrugged and wandered off. Optimus let out a relieved vent.</p>
<p>They really, really couldn’t deal with Rotorstorm and the twins in the same room right now. Someone would die. And then Ironhide would cry harder.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Smokescreen burst into the medical bay so fast he left skid marks. Especially impressive considering he was in root mode.</p>
<p>“Ratchet, Ratchet please,” he gasped.</p>
<p>Frantic, desperate. Staggering forward. A wild light in his optics, and a bulging pile of burnt lasagne in his arms.</p>
<p>“You have to fix him,” he said.</p>
<p>Ratchet dropped the tools he was using to prod at the wiring at the base of Prowl’s helm. He shot across the room in a blur. The panic in his EM field was clear.</p>
<p>He directed Smokescreen to place the lasagne—it was impossible to tell which twin it was on a normal day, let alone burnt to a crisp—nearby medical slab. Then he started working.</p>
<p>It was hard to tell what he was doing, what with Smokescreen blocking his line of sight. Never mind the fact that his processor was still throbbing from his routine checkup.</p>
<p>Finally, after several clicks, Ratchet stepped back. He let out a truly filthy string of swears.</p>
<p>“Ratchet?” Smokescreen asked bravely.</p>
<p>“I can't fix this,” said Ratchet.</p>
<p>“What? But—”</p>
<p>“I'm not a chef, Smokescreen! I can rewire the inner mechanics of a frame, but the intricacies of a lasagne are beyond me!” Ratchet scrubbed at his faceplates with his servos. “We need a chef.”</p>
<p>And the Autobots didn’t have one.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>It took nearly a full decacycle.</p>
<p>Sideswipe spent the whole time in a stasis field under close monitoring by Ratchet. Sunstreaker had sworn at everyone and then gone on with his life. It was. Hard. But life went on.</p>
<p>Prowl spent the decacycle holed away in his office with Chromia. They were combing through the records of every mech who had ever shown even a passing interest in joining the Autobots. No matter why they were turned down, if they were a trained chef than they were what they needed.</p>
<p>His first thought had been Rotorstorm, but he was a baker. As he said when they asked, it was a very different thing.</p>
<p>But then, suddenly, they found it.</p>
<p>They found Him.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Six-Gun lived up to his designation. It wasn’t hard to tell that the mech was literally made of guns. It was even easier to tell that he was designed to share all the way down to his spark.</p>
<p>He was, after all, teaching a little new-forge how to shoot when they found him. He wasn’t impressed when his student screeched in fear and disappeared into the rafters. He was even less impressed when he found out they were Autobots.</p>
<p>“No,” said Six-Gun.</p>
<p>“We haven’t asked anything yet,” said Chromia.</p>
<p>“You already turned down my application. Said I give off too much of a ‘violent aura' and will turn the neutrals against you,” said Six-Gun.</p>
<p>“That was a mistake, clearly,” said Chromia.</p>
<p>“Optimus Prime doesn’t make mistakes. Not with his words, anyway,” said Six-Gun.</p>
<p>Prowl winced. That was both very true and very wrong.</p>
<p>“Look. We're not here for your guns,” said Chromia.</p>
<p>Six-Gun stared at her.</p>
<p>His EM field radiated disagreement.</p>
<p>Which was fair, honestly. For a mech made out of guns it was almost impossible for things not to be about them. Especially during a war.</p>
<p>“I appreciate the gesture—” he clearly didn’t “—but I’ve already moved on.”</p>
<p>“Actually, we don’t need you to be an Autobot. We just need you to cook,” said Prowl.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>By the end of the next decacycle, Sideswipe was back on his feet again. He was on medical leave until his new layers finished… congealing… with the others. But he was alive. And mostly happy about it.</p>
<p>His only disappointment, he later explained to an uninterested Prowl, was that he hadn’t been able to give a dying speech to Sunstreaker. It would have really pissed him off, he said.</p>
<p>Prowl foisted several extra reports onto him for that.</p>
<p>Naturally, Six-Gun stuck to his guns and didn’t join the Autobots. He did give a brief lecture on how to cook and care for lasagne though. So it wasn’t all a loss.</p>
<p>Toaster in particular seemed to take the lessons to heart. Though, Prowl couldn’t possibly say why. Perhaps his own food-related alt-mode made him more suited to learning such things.</p>
<p>He didn’t know.</p>
<p>What he did know was that the twins had become an incredible addition to their army. Even if they had come with their share of drama.</p>
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